Blood Roses And Broken Vows

The alley reeked of sweat, blood, cheap cigars, and that choking scent of regret that always lingered long after the last bet was made.

Exactly the kind of place Sera warned her brother to stay away from.

But Jaxon Vale was addicted to the thrill more than any drug.

She stood just outside the circle of flickering light from a bare-bulbed streetlamp, hood pulled low over her head, watching him with a sick knot in her gut. Her fingers curled tighter around the fraying seams of her thrift-store jacket, nails biting into her palms. She didn't belong here. He didn't either. But once again, he had dragged them both into the wolf's den.

Metal dice clinked against the table, sharp like teeth snapping shut. Laughter. Groans. Money slapped into greedy hands.

And at the center of the chaos, there he was-Jaxon. Twenty-three. All false charm and broken promises. His once-crisp shirt was stained with something dark and dried at the collar. Blood, probably. His cheek was split, lip crusted over. But he was still smiling like he was the king of the world.

"Double or nothing," he slurred, leaning in, his jaw twitching with desperation.

His voice carried too loudly. Too confident for a man who looked like he hadn't eaten in two days and had the twitchy posture of someone who knew how this night might end.

"No," Sera whispered to herself, stepping forward. Her boots echoed off the damp pavement. "Jax, walk away. Now."

But he didn't even glance in her direction.

Because of course he didn't.

Jaxon Vale never knew when to stop. Never listened. Not when their mother was dying, not when the loan sharks came knocking, and not when Sera begged him-on her knees-to stay away from Elaros City's underground gambling dens.

She'd worked three jobs to keep them afloat.

And he'd bet it all in a single night.

Again.

The dealer grinned, teeth stained and gold at the edges. Jaxon rolled the dice with a cocky flick of his wrist. The moment they landed, the air in the alley shifted. Heavy. Charged. Like lightning seconds before it strikes.

Sera didn't need to see the numbers.

She already knew.

He'd lost.

And this time... they wouldn't let him walk away with just bruises.

The man across from Jaxon didn't look like much at first.

No loud entourage. No flashy watches. No overcompensating swagger.

But when he shifted in his seat and leaned one elbow on the table, the air changed.

Every voice around them fell into a hush. Even the drunk guy who'd been laughing too loud suddenly forgot how to breathe. The dice were still in Jaxon's hands, mid-roll, but no one was watching the game anymore.

They were watching him.

The stranger wore matte-black from head to toe-tailored like his suits were stitched from silence. On his hands, a dozen silver rings caught the glow of the streetlight-each carved with ancient-looking symbols Sera didn't recognize. His face was sharp, handsome in a cruel, precise way. Not pretty. Not soft. More like a weapon carved from marble.

And beneath his left eye, a scar. Thin and pale. Surgical. A reminder. A warning.

When he finally looked up, the light hit his features fully-and Sera's stomach turned cold.

Dante Moretti.

She knew the name. Everyone did.

It wasn't a name you said out loud in public unless you were drunk, dying, or stupid. Because Dante wasn't just mafia. He was the one the other families feared. The one with a rumored kill count higher than most wars. The one whose face was never in the papers, but whose fingerprints were on every black-market deal in Elaros.

Mafia royalty. King of shadows.

And, if the stories were true, more monster than man.

Jaxon looked unimpressed. "What, no chips?" he asked, still trying to pretend like he wasn't shaking inside his boots.

Dante's lips curved-barely. Like the smile was a thing he'd murdered long ago and only resurrected when someone was about to bleed.

"Let's make this interesting," Dante said, his voice low and smooth, like aged whiskey sliding over broken glass. "One last round."

Jaxon leaned back, cocky again. "You lose again, you walk."

But Dante didn't blink.

"You lose again," he said softly, "you give me something worth the risk."

There was a pause.

Long enough for the word deal to hang in the air like a blade.

Jaxon scoffed. "Like what? My soul?"

That smile again. A fraction wider.

> "No," Dante said, sliding a blank line of parchment across the table. "A name."

Sera didn't remember deciding to move.

Her legs just took over. Instinct. Rage. Fear.

She shoved past a wall of broad shoulders and sweat-stained leather jackets, pushing through a sea of sneering men and cigar smoke. The stench of cheap whiskey, engine grease, and blood clogged her nose, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

"Get off me," she snarled as a hand brushed her waist. She elbowed the drunk bastard hard enough to make him grunt and stumble back into a stack of crates.

No one tried to stop her after that.

Her boots slammed into the concrete, each step louder than the last until she reached the edge of the rusted metal table.

And froze.

The final roll had already landed.

And the world had gone silent.

Not silent like peace.

Silent like a courtroom just before a sentence is read.

Silent like the inhale before an executioner drops the blade.

Jaxon stood there, frozen-shoulders locked, jaw clenched. His eyes weren't just wide; they were hollow. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to ask the universe for a do-over that would never come.

The dice hadn't just failed him. They'd buried him.

Sera felt the weight of it all hit her chest like a sledgehammer.

He'd lost.

Again.

The dealer stepped back without a word, rubbing his hands like this was just another Tuesday. No pity. No scolding. Just business. Around the table, the crowd began murmuring, low and bloodthirsty, like wolves circling a carcass.

"You have nothing left," someone scoffed from the shadows. "No more cash. No bike. No fingers."

Another voice-sharper, colder-cut through the alley like a blade:

> "Except his life."

Sera's heart twisted violently. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Jaxon didn't react to them. Not to the threats. Not to the laughter.

He wasn't looking at the crowd anymore.

He was looking at him.

Dante Moretti.

The man who hadn't said a word since the last roll. Who hadn't needed to.

He just sat there, watching Jaxon with that calm, unreadable expression-like he'd known this ending all along.

Then Jaxon moved.

Slow. Mechanical. As if he wasn't in his own body.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded, creased slip of paper, and set it on the table like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Sera's pulse stuttered.

She took a sharp step forward. "Jax. What the hell is that?"

No answer.

Her voice cracked. "Jaxon-what is that?"

He didn't look at her. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

Instead, he looked at Dante and said in a hoarse whisper, "I offer this. A binding deal. She's of age. She's mine to offer."

For a second-just one breathless, frozen second-no one moved.

Then chaos erupted.

Gasps. Curses. Shocked laughter. Even the dealer dropped his cigar.

Sera blinked once. Twice.

> "No. No, no, no. Don't you dare," she hissed, chest heaving.

But Jaxon kept going.

His fingers-shaking but determined-picked up a gold fountain pen that Dante had slid across the table without a word. It gleamed in the dim light like a ceremonial blade.

Sera stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Put. That. Pen. Down."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, barely audible.

> "DON'T YOU F**KING DARE!"

But it was too late.

Ink met paper.

Jaxon signed his name-sloppily, hastily.

And then he did the unforgivable.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he wrote her name underneath it.

Seraphina Vale.

Sera's world stopped. Just... stopped.

Everything froze around her. The crowd. The shadows. The noise.

She couldn't hear anything but her heartbeat. Loud. Violent. Betrayed.

Then her legs moved.

She lunged across the table, shoving chairs and crates aside. Rage tore through her, hot and sharp, as she slammed her fists into Jaxon's chest.

"You selfish, cowardly son of a-!"

Before she could finish, rough hands grabbed her from behind. Two. Maybe three. She kicked, elbowed, twisted. Someone hissed as her heel smashed into a shin. Another howled when she bit down on a hand trying to cover her mouth.

But they didn't let go.

They held her like she weighed nothing-like she wasn't even human.

She fought like fire.

It didn't matter.

And then...

He moved.

Dante Moretti rose from his chair with all the calm grace of a man who never needed to rush. He adjusted the cuffs of his black suit. Straightened his collar. Then stepped forward-his boots echoing with measured control.

Sera stopped struggling. Not because she'd given up-but because she felt him coming.

Like a storm.

He stopped right in front of her.

A breath away.

Close enough that she could see the faint red ring circling his irises.

Close enough that she could smell the danger on him-spice, power, and something dark. Something ancient.

He tilted his head, studied her like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

Then, he smiled.

Not wide. Not loud. Just a slow, cruel curve of the lips that made her skin crawl.

> "Congratulations," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

> "You're going to be my wife."